Run
by Simone Robinson
Summary: "-Maybe he's just so damn sick of running, that he's found the bloodstained knife Raph has stashed away and he's just going to end it all. But he doubts it, so he doesn't move-"A blood stained knife, a bottle of scotch, a bag of demons, a life on the run.


**Full fic. Poetry serving as more of a quote.**

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_If I climb the stairwell. Step. By. Step._

_Will you still push me to my grave?_

_You took my hand to pull me up_

_But still you let me fall._

_If I rev as hard as I can go_

_And ride without my helmet on_

_And fall and split my head on the bitter pavement_

_Will I still go to hell?_

_Because I walk through the night_

_But I'm never alone_

_Cause I walk and I ride and I run_

_But the devil wouldn't let me die alone_

_Will I go to hell because I tried to find you?_

_Will I go to hell because I rode the highway too damn hard?_

_Heaven only knows._

_Heaven only knows, but hell- it got the memo_

_Because I walk through the night_

_But I'm never alone_

_Cause I walk and I ride and I run_

_But the devil wouldn't let me die alone_

***0***

They'd been on the road for days. Or it could have been weeks, months. Raphael wasn't sure anymore. Then again, he wasn't sure if he cared and he pulled the blanket- a threadbare piece of cloth- tighter around his shoulders.

In the diver's seat, he could make out a silhouette. It wasn't much. In the dark he couldn't pick out the features, the expression. But he could imagine. Imagine the mouth set in a grim line, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.

The scrunched brow, naked without his mask, made Raphael touch his own face. No masks. That was okay, he'd always hated them anyway.

He passed his tongue over his teeth. Brushing them would be nice. It had been a while, been a while since they'd smuggled themselves into cheap motel rooms. One bed only, because they could never risk anything more. Hunched beneath the blankets, listening to his little bother try to stifle his sobs. Raphael heard everything though. After a while, the kid stopped trying to hide it and started clinging to his brother for warmth and protection. Raph hadn't pushed him away.

It had been days since he'd seen the kid cry. Days. Or was it weeks, months? And

Raphael turns to stare out of the window. He can't see anything anyway but it's better than closing his eyes. Because that's when the nightmares start. The remembering starts.

Raphael can feel his chest tighten. By now, the memories aren't so vivid. Not so clear. They used to be so Goddamn _clear_. He remembers fire. He remembers rounds being emptied onto tanks and the shout to, _Get down_! He remembers the explosion and the debris as the shockwave sent them flying. He remembers not knowing. Wishing. Hope clawing at his chest. Regret. He remembers pushing himself to his feet, unsteady, shaky as a freaking toddler. He remembers his vision fading out to black, that horribly fuzziness washing over him. Hot. Cold. Hot. Cold. And then nothing. Nothing just before he hit the ground.

Leonardo. Donatello.

He didn't know. He didn't sodding know.

They're approaching a billboard now, big and lit up. The country roads have no streetlights here and he knows his brother will take the opportunity to stop. He's always hated the dark.

He turns to see Michelangelo's features thrown into sharp relief. The shadows seem to etch themselves into his skin, thick webs of darkness.

"You gonna drive?" Michelangelo sounds tired. So, _so_ tired that Raphael can't do anything but nod. He reaches out to take the keys.

Michelangelo fumbles for a minute but other than that, it's quiet.

It's always quiet now.

Raphael reaches out and the lull is broken by the clang of the car keys hitting the floor, "Dammit." He mutters under his breath, picking them up.

He glances up, but Mikey is already gone, standing at the back of the van, rummaging for something.

Maybe food, maybe water, maybe he's cold. Maybe he's just so damn sick of everything, so damn sick of _running_, that he's found the bloodstained knife Raph has stashed away and he's just going to end it all. But he doubts it, so he doesn't move.

There's something gaunt in Michelangelo's features now. Has been for quite sometime. Some kind of understanding has replaced the innocence. Some kind of fear. His skin seems just a tiny bit more lined. Raph has chalked it up to grief, anger. He never talks to Raphael now. When he does, it's bunt, cold. But Raphael has already gotten used to it.

And that's a very sad fact.

Raphael used to be angry. He remembered, the first few days, he'd asked and asked Mikey: _Who did it? Who took them from us? Ripped them from our lives and left this black, gaping hole?_ But Mikey would never say and Raphael remembers slamming him up against a wall, demanding, begging that he just _tell _him so that he could get vengeance, _closure._

But Mikey said that he didn't know. And Raphael could never believe him.

That's where Mikey's fear had ended, and this new, bitter thing had emerged from the ashes.

He starts when his door is wrenched open. His brother is standing there, a water bottle clenched in his fist. He throws a look at Mikey and then slides out. The leather seats stick to his skin and it smarts ever so slightly. The ground beneath his feet is hard, littered with stones and braken. He wonders where they are and glances at the sign. His vision is blurry through his eyes, and he can't make out anything. He wonders if it's smart for him to drive and he looks back at the car. Michelangelo is slumped in his seat, a hand over his eyes.

_Yes_, he decides, _he can do it._

So he slams the door shut, and jams the key into the ignition. The car rumbles to life and Raph grips the gear lever.

His own knuckles turn white and start to ache as he pulls out, speeding down the road. Running.

He feels sick.

Because Raphael doesn't know what they are running from. Who they are running from. He has his brother's word to go on—when had that been enough? Apparently it had been. For the days. _Weeks, months?_ But now it started to loose its glamour.

_Answers._

He clenched his teeth.

_Answers._

"Mikey."

"We going to spring for a motel tonight?"

Raph glances at him. His brother has an unreadable expression on his face. Almost blank, but not quite.

He looks back at the road, not that he can see anything anyway, "Yeah, if ya want."

Mikey says nothing. Maybe he nodded. A tremor passes through Raph. It's cold.

Mikey mimics his thoughts, "Pass the blanket."

Raphael realizes it's still bunched on his lap and he tosses it over. Mikey grunts his thanks.

It's quiet again, as Raph pulls up in front of a petrol station. The lights flicker and a man sleeps on the font porch. Just behind him, a sign reads: _otel_.

Hmm. The _M_ must be missing.

He locks the van, packing just a few feet away from the station. They're far now, far away from any town but it doesn't hurt to be cautious. After all, he doesn't know _what_ they're running from. _Who_ they're running from.

And it grates on Raphael's nerves.

Still, he keeps his mouth shut as they haul themselves in through a window, locking the door from the inside.

The room smells like stale smoke and cat piss, but Raphael doesn't complain and Michelangelo is still too damn quiet.

Michelangelo takes a shower. Apparently, it doesn't matter to the landlords, that they have an extra tenant. Raphael's dealt with this before. The wife thinks the husband admitted them, the husband thinks it's the wife and by the time they figure it out, their van is long gone with them in it.

Raphael doesn't like mooching, but they were starting to run out of options.

After about ten minutes, Raph stands up from the bed and knocks on the door, "Hot water, kid!"

There's a mumbled apology and Michelangelo steps out. He's dripping wet, a grey towel draped over his shoulders.

Raphael grunts something about inconsiderate brothers, and steps into the bathroom, trying to ignore the memories of four brothers fighting dibs on the bathroom.

Raphael doesn't was to admit it, but everything is still too raw.

He turns on the water, stripping off his remaining gear. There's still warm water, and for that, Raphael is grateful. He just stands for a moment, head back, soaking in the heat, letting it wash away his thoughts. It feels good to be _really _clean again.

When the water starts to get cold, he turns off the tap and steps out. He rummages through the grimy cabinets.

Then he stands up and brushes his teeth.

***0***

He's a hypocrite, that's what he is. A Goddamn hypocrite.

He tips the plastic cup back, feeling a burn as the scotch hits the back of his throat. He stashed it a while back, while they still had enough cash. Looked all over the car to find where he'd hidden it. Memory was fuzzy. How long ago was that? He doesn't know. He's stopped trying to count. The drink crawls into his stomach like acid and a flush of self-righteous apprehension glows on his cheeks, "What the hell ya lookin' at?"

Michelangelo says nothing, looking away.

Raphael's had enough, "No ya don't!" He makes a grab for Michelangelo, catching his arm in a vice.

His brother winces.

"Ya been dodging questions, Mike." He narrows his gaze, "And this time, I want answers."

"Raph…" Mikey's voice is tentative, soft and somehow, it grates on Raph's nerves, "You're drunk."

Raphael pushes Mikey's arm away like it's something disgusting, scrunching up his beak, "I aint drunk."

Michelangelo frowns, but somehow, he won't meet his eye, "Where'd you get that anyway?"

"Couple days back. Weeks. Months." He pauses, "Geeze, how long we been on da road anyway?"

Mikey shrugs, "It's been a long time."

Raphael nearly growls, "Ya still haven't told me." He stands up, catching the wall. He's leaning against the wall to think. Just to think. He can keep his balance just fine. He's a sodding ninja, "Ya still haven't told me…" He continues, glaring down at his brother, "_Why_ we're on da run. We coulda gone back ta Masta Splinta, or gotten those assholes-" He pauses, "_That_ asshole, I dunno, who did dis! _Why_ are we still running?"

Michelangelo's gaze is lowered now, and he hates how his brother looks _almost _scared.

He leans down, pushing into Michelangelo's personal space, until he knows his brother can smell the scotch on his breath, "_Why_?" He hisses.

Something in Mikey's eyes change and his brother recoils.

"You really…?" Michelangelo fades out, now lying half on the bed, half on the floor. Raph's scotch now lays forgotten on the floor, soaking into the carpet. He glances down. _Fuck_. Ah well, he has more and it will probably make the room _smell_ better at least.

"I really _what_?"

"Don't remember." Mikey's voice is small, but gathering in strength, "You don't remember. I though you would have, I mean… it's been ye- a long time. A long time, Raphael."

Since when did Mikey call him by his full name? Oh right. A while now. Damn his memory was screwed.

"_What_ don't I rememba?" Which part? It was all so dark now, no longer vivid. It had started to feel _more_ raw, more _real_ and Raphael can't take it anymore. He glances down at the spilt scotch.

Michelangelo's voice is hoarse, scratchy. A whisper in the near blackness and when he looks at Raphael, he swears his eyes are _haunted_, "Everything."

Raphael's throat is suddenly very tight and he has to force the words out, "How _long_, Mikey, have we been on the damn _road_?"

Michelangelo's eyes are suddenly filled with something bitter, something like pain, and Raphael realizes he's no longer used too seeing him so open, "Years." He mumbles.

Years. Two? What? Twelve months? That's a long time.

He takes a deep breath, "Mike? How long?"

Mikey shifts his gaze, "Four."

Four years. The words ram into his brain.

He sneers, "Don't talk shit, Mike. Two's a flippin' stretch. Four? Bullshit."

Michelangelo stands and the look on his face is so pained, so damn hurt that he can't take it.

"Bullshit?" Mikey is laughing, but there's something almost hysterical to his voice, "Yes. All these years, it's all been such _bullshit_. Ever damn moment, I remember everything but y_ou_?" He shakes his head, taking a step back, "You. Every few days, you get this close-" He holds up his fingers, "_This_ close to remembering and then you just _slip_!" He smiles a wry, thin smile, "You slip and then _everything_ starts all over again."

Raphael frowns, "What the hell ya talking about?" There's a sick feeling in his stomach that he can't quite place.

"Four years." Mikey chuckles, "And it's like playing everything on re-wind. Over and over and Goddamn _over_ because _you_ don't want to _remember_."

Raphael shakes his head, almost lost for words, "I rememba-"

"_Nothing_!" Mikey hisses. Then he pauses, looking shocked by his own tone. He clears his throat, "You… Master Splinter tried everything but he just couldn't live with it. With you. I said I'd help. Even after what happened. You were my brother. I thought…" he shakes his head, "I thought a lot of things back then. Hell, you probably won't remember _this_ in a few days either."

_Were my brother_. Past tense. Raphael feels cold, "What the fuck-kinda sick joke is dis?"

"A joke…" Michelangelo beams and the lines become more pronounced. It's forced, "You know, I really wish it were that simple." He shrugs, seemingly tired now, the grin fading, "We've gone through this so many times. I've been broken so many times, telling you gently. That's why we're not wearing masks anymore- it used to help but now…" He sighs, "Just do me a favor? Don't scream this time."

"Scream? What the hell?" Raphael is starting to get unnerved. There's something seriously wrong with Mikey.

"You remember the explosion?" Mikey is not-quite-smiling.

Raphael tenses until his shoulders start to ache, till the pain is chiseled into his memory, "What about it?"

"You know how it started?"

"Some punk ass shot at the tanks." Raphael can feel something bubbling under his skin. He's not sure what it is.

"Funny. Never said that before." Michelangelo is picking at his words like they're some kind of puzzle.

"_And_?" He snarls.

"And? Oh yeah…" Mikey's eyes are bloodshot. Funny he only noticed now, "Yeah, the foot again you know-"

Raphael makes to interrupt but Mikey holds up a hand, "In the warehouse. Ya saw the guns. Anyway, you were pissed and Leo told you that it wasn't a good idea, but you told him that he didn't know anything like normal." Mikey's voice is strangely blank, as if he's talking from a script, "Anyway, when you started shooting the ammo, Leonardo was already half way across the floor trying to stop you." He pauses, chuckling, "Stupid bastard."

Raphael can see where this is heading, and he shakes his head, a cold feeling in his stomach, "No. You're _lying_." He spits.

"Don knew what was gonna happen, he ran out to stop him-"

"Lying, lying, lying! Stop fucking _lying_!" Raphael is shouting now and he wonders, for the briefest of moments, how the landlords haven't notices.

Michelangelo just ploughs on, blank, dead, no smartass comments. Then again, there hasn't been any for a long time. _Years_, "You were so angry, you just didn't see it until it was too late. Everything exploded-"

"_Shut up_!" If Michelangelo wasn't so far away he would have _smashed his_—but no, he needs the walls support while the world starts to crumble at his feet, shattering and splintering.

"Everything exploded and they died Raph." Michelangelo's voice hardened, "They _died_ and it was no one else's fault-" Michelangelo smiles, but suddenly it looks _sick_, "Four years bro. Deal with it. This time please just-"

But he never hears the end of the sentence. Raphael grips at the wall, etching his fingerprints into the room forever, sliding to his knees.

Everything is disjointed, painful.

There's a moment of silence.

Then Raphael screams.

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**Thank you to notawordsmith for her awesome input, once over and help with the title. Thank you!**

**What did you think?**


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